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Bruce drags his feet one by one up the stairs of the Batcave, feeling all his years on his every step, feels the weight of his suit on his shoulders even after he’s stripped himself off of it. Tonight had been busy. Killer Croc is back on the streets; it had taken him an unusually long amount of time to get everything under control. Alfred follows behind him, talking about—something, something that Bruce doesn’t quite catch.
“—Master Bruce?”
Bruce closes his eyes; pain immediately explodes behind his eyelids. He feels sluggish, his every move is heavy, when he lifts his feet it’s like waddling through molasses. He opens his eyes and the world tilts. Bruce blames it on three days of sleep deprivation when he stumbles on his own feet. He quickly catches himself before he faceplants onto the floor.
“Sir,” Alfred says, alarmed. Arm reaching out, brows pulling down in concern. Bruce has seen that expression on his face thousands of times, it never fails to make him feel like he needs to put up a strong front.
Bruce waves him off. “I’m fine, Alfred.”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea to retire to the bedroom, Master Bruce.”
“Probably,” Bruce grits out, massaging his temple to relieve some of the pain. His strained shoulder hurts a thousand times worse than it should.
“Shall I endeavour to prepare some medicine for you, Master Bruce?”
“Please, Alfred. And thank you.” Bruce pushes the doors to his bedroom open, quickly changing into his soft pyjamas, falling into sleep seconds after his head hits his pillow.
-
When Bruce comes to he’s shivering. The coldness sweeps over his body like an unrelenting storm. He’s unable to keep his teeth from chattering even after he gets himself under his comforter, cocooning himself in its warmth. He draws his mind to focus, breathing slowly, carefully.
It’s all in his mind, he reminds himself. He’s the Batman, he can’t give in to some stupid cold.
-
The next day Alfred declares that Bruce has a fever of 102 degrees and therefor, is unfit for activities throughout the day. He would’ve protested, he tried, but when he takes a step out of his bed it’s to hurl all of his insides into the toilet.
For once in his life, Bruce listens to Alfred (and his disapproving glare) and rests.
-
Later in the night he manages to convince Alfred that he’s feeling better and goes out to patrol with Damian (who gives a jab about diseases and how they are unfit for Batman).
It all goes to hell when he passes out after getting a kick in the stomach, leaving Damian to actually drive the batmobile home this time.
-
He wakes up to a prick of pain on his arm, he tries to move it but a cool hand stops him from doing so.
“Stay still.”
Tim’s calm voice enters his hearing. Bruce pries his eyes open one by one, blinking when his vision remains hazy. He brings his free hand to his face to rub at his eyes.
“Time?” He croaks out.
“A little over noon, 3:07 PM,” Tim answers, pulling out the needle from Bruce’s arm and applying an alcohol swab, pressing. Bruce can’t see where his hands are next but the clinking of vials suggests he’s arranging Bruce’s blood samples.
Tim’s hair is pulled back in a small ponytail, permanent eyebags visible underneath his blue, blue eyes. He catches Bruce staring and smiles.
“Finally it’s the Flu that takes down the Batman, huh?”
“No,” Bruce grunts, sitting up. His headache is back and it’s making things fuzzy around the edges.
Tim hands him a glass of water, which he swallows down gratefully. “Back from the Titans?” Bruce asks, his voice still rough from sleep.
Tim hums an affirmative, taking the empty glass in his hands and putting a tray of food on his lap.
“Here, Alfred told me to make sure you eat something.” Tim throws himself onto a chair that he must have dragged next to Bruce’s bed. Bruce takes a tentative sip of the porridge in the bowl.
“He’s out buying groceries and picking up Damian,” Tim says, pulling out his phone and starts texting. “He called me when he found you passed out in the batmobile,” Tim continues, “you got everyone pretty worried there, Bruce.”
“I’m fine,” Bruce insists.
Tim raises an eyebrow at him. “Really? Last time I checked fine people don’t crumble after one kick to the stomach,” he says drily. “We called dr. Thompkins, she came earlier to check up on you, she said it might be fatigue.”
“It’ll go away tonight.”
“No it won’t.”
“It’ll have to.”
“Right.” By the look on his face, Tim remains unconvinced. “Bruce, seriously, you passed out. I don’t think you should be patrolling tonight.”
Bruce frowns. Tim sighs. “You’ve been sick what, five days?” Bruce opens his mouth to interject, but Tim doesn’t let him. “No, don’t answer that,” he says, knowing, “you passed out which means you have to have been under the weather for a few days before that but didn’t tell anyone. From the scale of your exhaustion and your fever, I’d say two—three days,” he continues, “which means you’ve been sick for a total of five days.”
Bruce doesn’t reply. He can’t really deny the logic in Tim’s words (not to mention that he’s dead right). Annoyance and a little pride bloom in his chest at his third son’s attitude. The young man’s won this round of argument. He knows, Bruce can see it in his eyes.
Tim’s phone chimes and he taps a quick reply. “So, no patrol tonight. Dr. Thompkins said total rest if you don’t want to damage your body permanently,” he continues, “I’m taking over your current case, smuggling ring wasn’t it?” Tim squints up at him.
Bruce doesn’t answer, he knows Tim already has the file, been following it since he gave the slightest indication that there was even a case.
Tim hums again. “Don’t think about the city too much.” He grins at Bruce, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “I called everyone in, and then some, so don’t worry.”
Bruce’s spoon stops halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean by ‘and then some’?”
Tim waves him off. “You’ll know soon enough. All you need to know is that Gotham will be in very capable hands while you’re unavailable.”
Bruce directs a frown at him. “Tim.”
“Bruce.”
“No funny businesses.”
“Sure, sure.” Bruce suddenly misses the days when Tim would take his orders more seriously.
“Tim.”
“Bruce.”
“No metas.”
Tim gives him a long, withering look. “I mean it,” Bruce presses.
“I think you should be more concerned about yourself,” Tim starts, “when I said everyone you know I meant Dick too, right?” Tim tilts his head.
Bruce’s eyes widen a fraction.
Oh hell no.
-
“Bruce!”
Dick kicks down—literally kicks down—Bruce’s bedroom doors, making them thump the walls behind with a loud bang. Bruce’s lips thin, eyebrow raised.
“You’re really sick? Really, really sick?” Dick exclaims, dramatically feeling for Bruce’s forehead. Frowning and tutting at the still high temperature of the older man. Bruce’s fever hadn’t gone down yet, despite him sweating it out every few hours. He would’ve batted Dick’s hand away if he was healthier but now all he does is lean into the touch.
Dick looks startled when he does. “Wow, you really are sick,” he comments, voice dropping into a more serious tone, losing all traces of mockery in them.
“-tt. Of course he is, Grayson. Don’t be stupid.” Damian scoffs from the direction of the door. “He wouldn’t fake an illness to get out of patrol.” Dick gives Bruce a crooked smile, shifting on the edge of the bed to face the boy.
“Hey, Dami,” he greets. Damian is wearing his full Robin uniform, leaning on the door jamb of Bruce’s bedroom, arms crossed.
“Damian,” Bruce warns, “rooms with windows, you know the rules.”
Damian tsked. “I was merely checking up on you, father, making sure that Grayson’s coddling hasn’t suffocated you yet.”
“Thank you?” Bruce looks at Dick questioningly. Dick lifts his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
“Ye of little faith, young one. Shouldn’t you get going already?” Dick asks.
Damian huffs but listens, storming away while grumbling under his breath. Bruce takes in the state of Dick’s clothing, a simple pair of jeans and a shirt.
“Not going out tonight?” Bruce asks.
Dick shakes his head. “Nope,” he answers, popping the p on the word. “Got stuck Guarding the Lion.” He grins, gracefully folding himself onto the same chair that Tim used earlier.
Bruce frowns. If that’s what he thinks it means he’s going to have some serious words with Tim.
“I’m fine.”
“Uhuh, somebody’s gotta take care of you while you’re sick, Bruce.”
“I’m fine,” he insists, “there’s Alfred.”
Dick laughs. “Are you serious? Alfie’s not enough to hold you back in if you really want to get out. You need total rest, dr. Thompkins called earlier, your blood test came back positive for something,” Dick describes, “seems like you’ve got Dengue fever. Went anywhere sunny lately?”
“It’s a tropical disease?”
Dick nods. “It’s bad, too. The virus eats your thrombocyte, exploding them from the inside out. There’s no cure except total rest,” he emphasizes on the last two words with jabs of his hand. “That’s why Tim felt the need to up the security so you don’t try any,” Dick lifts his hands, making air quotations. “Funny business.”
Bruce groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh god.”
“Besides,” he quips, “Alfred needs some serious vacation. And look at it this way Bruce, you being sick is great for family bonding.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Bruce snaps.
“Babysitter?” Dick looks at him incredulously. “I’m not your babysitter, I’m your warden. Now eat your dinner and sleep.”
-
The knock on the door takes Dick out of his not-dozing off. He blinks awake. Alert despite his previous state. He yawns, stretching up on his tiptoes while walking to the door.
He opens the door. “Clark!” Dick beams at the visitor, clad in blue and red and complete with a cape.
“Hey,” Clark smiles, one of those megawatt farmboy smiles that he doesn’t realize he still uses. “I came as soon as I heard,” he says. Dick steps aside to let him in before closing the door again. Clark places the huge fruit parcel he’d been carrying on the table. “Here,” he starts, “from Ma. She says he needs to get well soon so she can feed him again.”
Dick snickers and gives him a salute. “Duly noted, will inform the sleeping beauty once he’s woken up.”
Clark raises an eyebrow. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” he says, pointing his index finger at Dick.
Clark moves to hover near the bed, his face is a mask of concern. Dick walks after him, leaning against the bed post. “How is he?” Clark asks.
“As you can see.” Dick waves his hand to the figure on the bed, who has been out cold since Damian left for patrol.
Clark’s face softens. “He must really be sick, huh?”
Dick nods. “Yeah, never seen him this bad. I’m kind of scared, to be honest,” he admitted.
Clark looks at Dick sympathetically. He claps one giant hand onto Dick’s shoulder. “He’s going to be fine, you know that, right? He’s always going to be fine,” he assures the younger man.
Dick smiles at his sort-of-uncle. He nods. “I guess. I’m just not used to him being so sick.”
“There’s a first for everything.” Clark shrugs.
“How did you know Bruce was sick?”
“Kon told me,” Clark answers. “Said he was going to Gotham to accompany Tim on patrol. I figured something was up if Kon is allowed in Gotham.”
Dick laughs, he visibly brightens at the mention of Tim, before his smile turns wistful. “Tim’s leading tonight.”
“He is? How does that work with Damian?”
“I have no idea,” he sighs. “But they’ll manage. I put Babs on Damian-sitting duty.”
Clark gives him a look. Dick has never tried to bullshit him. He’d practically watched Dick grew up. He always sees past Dick’s lies. “How’s Tim?” He asks earnestly.
Dick opens his mouth, closes it again. He crosses his arms and plays with the pendant of his necklace.
“He’s doing,” he pauses, searching for the right word, “better,” he decides. “Cass is back, and Steph is Batgirl now. They make him smile,” he says, “he’s been smiling a lot lately.”
“That’s good. How are you and him?”
“We’re—We’re good,” Dick explains. “We’re trying. It’s not easy, but we’re trying as best as we can.”
Clark puts his hand on Dick’s shoulder again. It’s kind of anchoring. There’s something about Superman and his touches that anchors Dick when he’s feeling rocky. Maybe it’s because he’s so warm all the time, Clark does harvest the sun for his powers.
“I’m glad.”
-
“Man, I’m beat.”
“Me too.”
“Me three.”
“Four.”
“What is this childish behaviour?”
Jason scrunches up his face at Damian. “What kind of question is that? You should’ve said five, it would’ve completed the sequence.” He points his gun at the kid accusingly.
“Sequence? Don’t be an imbecile, Todd,” Damian replies, rolling his eyes.
Tim lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “Jason, put down the gun. Damian, stop being an asshole,” he orders sternly. He’s slouching on Bruce’s chair in front of the batcomputer, fingers typing away a report on tonight’s patrol. He knows Jason is making a face at him right now, but he holsters his gun anyway.
Damian raises his fist at Tim. “If you think you can tell me what to do—“
“Yo! Ex-boyfriend-turned-boss-man!” Steph hollers from where she’s lounging on top of the batmobile, effectively cutting off Damian before he could finish his threat. “When can I get out of here?”
Jason joins her, throwing himself on the hood of the car. “Better be soon, Timmy boy,” he adds, “our purple lady here needs her beauty sleep.” Steph grins and holds out her fist for Jason to bump.
“Milady,” she chirps after the bump. Waving her hand in the air and mimicking a bow.
Jason curtsies as best as he can from his position. “Milord.” Then they both burst into a fit of snickers and giggles.
“I am going upstairs. Clearly my presence is no longer needed here,” Damian declares. Before doing exactly what he just said. Without asking for Tim’s dismissal as tonight’s team leader.
Tim lets out another sigh.
Suddenly there are two hands on his shoulders. Not pressing or pulling, just simply laying there. He leans into the touch and looks up. Cass’s smiling face greets him upside down.
“Finished?”
Tim smiles at her. “Not quite.” He goes back to his report, types a few more lines and lets out an exhale. “There, now we’re finished. Go shower and sleep, all of you.”
Jason hoots from the batmobile. “Race ya to the showers blondie.” It’s followed by an even louder ‘you’re on’ from Stephanie and the patter of hard-lined boots against the cave floor.
Cass keeps her hands where they are. Tim sags against the chair.
“Tired?” She asks softly.
“Kind of. Worried about B,” he says.
Cass hums, resting her chin atop of Tim’s head. She gives Tim’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “He’s going to be okay,” she tells him.
Tim nods. He really wants to believe that, but somehow, he can’t.
-
There’s something scary about Bruce being sick. Tim feels like he shouldn’t be as scared as he is right now. After all, didn’t Bruce die once?
It was different, though. Bruce got zapped in a battlefield. Where impossible things have happened during the course of their partnership. And when Bruce supposedly died, Tim always classified it as another impossible event that could not have been real (and it wasn’t after all).
Bruce is supposed to be indestructible. Having Bruce’s mortality shoved into his face like this is unsettling. To think that he is just another man after all, capable of being struck down by a simple virus.
The illusion crumbles, as if Tim hadn’t known it was one all these years.
-
“Hey,” Tim whispers. He pushes open the door to Bruce’s bedroom as quietly as he can.
Dick looks up from his phone. “Hey Timmy,” he grins. “How was patrol?” He puts away his phone on his pocket.
“Oh you know,” Tim drawls, shoving his hands in his pockets. Only he’s wearing boxers and it doesn’t have pockets so his hands end up kind of rubbing the sides of his thighs awkwardly. He shrugs, lets out an exhale. “Challenging.”
Dick chuckles. “Damian?”
Tim nods, grinning. “He’s not even half of it.”
He closes the door behind him and walks up to the bed. Tim stares at the man sleeping on it. Bruce’s sleep is deep, his breathing the same. He looks to be getting better. A wave of relief sweeps over Tim. He proceeds to crawl up and lies down beside Bruce. He curls himself close to his father, resting his hand on top of his chest, letting it rise and fall with each rush of air. Tim feels thirteen again, unsure of where he places in this world.
“Y’know,” Tim murmurs, “it’s kind of surreal that he’s sick.”
Dick places his hand on Tim’s, the latter looks up. Dick meets his eyes and smiles. “I know, believe me.”
And Tim believes it. He believes every word that comes out of Dick’s mouth. He thinks he should know better than to hang onto Dick’s every word. But after what they’ve been through, his soul misses Dick dearly. He just wants things to go back to the way they were, when a word from Dick is enough to calm him down.
He leans over Bruce’s sleeping form to ruffle Tim’s hair. “Go to sleep Timbo, you look tired.”
Tim yawns, feels his eyes start to droop. “Alright, goodnight Dick.”
“Goodnight Tim.”
-
Cassandra manages to somehow open the door without a sound. She peers inside the room. Smiles when she sees Tim where he is. Frowns a little when she sees Dick asleep on the chair. He’ll get a crick on his neck and complain. They won’t hear the end of it tomorrow.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?”
Damian is behind her, he looks lost, his body is tense. She’s not surprised. Damian is still hesitant about his siblings’ affection for him, still doesn’t know what to make of his own affection towards them.
“Is Drake there?” He asks, glancing between her and the darkness of their father’s room.
This, too. He doesn’t know what to do with his newfound respect for Tim. Damian is clumsy with feelings. He’s—what was the term? Steph told her yesterday.
Blindly groping in the dark.
Cass nods. “He is.”
Damian frowns. He’s thinking about leaving. Cass won’t let him. He can be easy with her, he should know this. She doesn’t judge. She understands.
He looks at her. For support, for a prove that he is wanted there.
“Don’t go,” she whispers. “It’ll be warmer here.”
She knows Damian is cold when he’s alone. He doesn’t sleep with Dick anymore. Damian needs to grow on his own, without Dick. But she knows how the cold creeps in. He sleeps with Titus these days; it helps with the warmth but not with the nightmares.
She knows.
He needs the reassurance that she won’t condescend him. He needs a special kind of softness. The one that Dick has. Cass takes his hand. Damian’s hand is rough from swordplay. Hers is too.
She gives him a small smile.
It’s the last encouragement he needs.
-
Dick wakes up to a nudge on his head.
“Whassatfff,” he mumbles blearily, flailing around to retaliate his attacker.
“Wow, aren’t you the poster boy for grace right now,” Jason deadpans.
Dick blinks himself awake, yawns. “Jay?”
“Ugh, gross. Close your mouth.” Jason is looming over him, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a red sweater that looks too snug around his biceps. His hair is damp from the shower; it flops to one side of his head unceremoniously. Dick resists the urge to tell him to dry and comb it properly. God knows Jason being here with them is miracle enough.
Dick frowns. “Is that my sweater?”
Jason shrugs, he looks down. “Probably? I don’t know,” he says, pulling at the fabric a bit. “Move, I want to sit down.”
“Move where?”
Jason points over his shoulder with his thumb to the bed. “I don’t know; why don’t you join those little monsters yonder.” Dick follows his finger and stares at the bed. He feels something warm flood his chest. Bruce hasn’t moved from his position on the middle of the bed, but on his right is Damian, sprawled half on top of him. On his left is Tim, curled up and tucked under Bruce’s arm like a small kitten. Cass is behind Tim, having made a nest for herself from pillows Dick is sure she stole from his room.
“I—“ he stutters. “Well,” he smiles, “that looks warm.” He looks at Jason hopefully. “Jay?”
Jason lifts both his hands up. “Whoa pal, I may have softened up a little but that doesn’t mean I’ll willingly sleep next to the old man. I might kill him in my sleep, or something.”
Dick’s face falls. “Oh,” he says quietly. He’s learned not to push Jason into things. He knows his little brother will come around eventually, but he also knows that it will take time.
Dick nods resolutely. “Alright.” He stands up from the chair he’d been sitting on for the past few hours. His body feels stiff. He stretches up, his joints popping and cracking.
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Dude, it sounds like you broke something.”
“Nah.” Dick grins, dismisses Jason’s comment. “’s just how I am.”
“Alright, rubber man.” Jason snickers.
He walks over to the bed and falls face first next to Damian. The boy stirs but doesn’t wake. Dick sighs contently. Bruce’s bed is softer and better than the one he has in Bludhaven. The sheets probably have like a million thread counts or something.
“You sure you don’t want to get in, Jay? It’s really soft here,” Dick mumbles sleepily.
He sees Jason settle on the chair and shake his head. “Nah thanks, I’m good.” Despite his words, Jason extends his feet so that they’re resting next to Dick’s arm.
“Okay Jaybird, g’night.”
-
Bruce is dimly aware that he is in a dream.
It’s the one he’s had a hundred—no a thousand times before.
Being back in a child’s body makes him feel weak. The pavement underneath his feet is too hard. The smile on his face too bright for what’s ahead. The hands holding his are unreal.
He can’t stop it when it starts. He can’t look away, can’t do anything when the splatter of blood hits the sidewalk. Can’t stop the pearls from falling down.
Bruce is helpless.
He’s shaking with tears. His breaths coming in heaves and gulps. When he hears the voice coming, gentle and soft. It sounds unlike his mother, but safe, nevertheless, swaying. It envelopes him in a warm, white light.
Bruce, the voice says. Wake up.
He wakes up gasping, yearning for air like a drowning man. The remnants of the nightmare that has haunted him all his life echoing behind his eyelids. The sun is glaring at him from the drawn blinds. He tries to cover his face with his hands and wonders what time is it. Alfred must have come in and done it, but why hadn’t he woken Bruce up?
It’s then that he’s reminded of his sickness, and for the first time that morning, Bruce is aware of his surroundings. He sits up, and stops midway—stunned.
He sucks in quiet a breath.
He understands why Alfred didn’t even bother to wake him—no, them up.
Bruce looks at the chair next to his bed, where Jason is sleeping. His arms are crossed, chin sticking to his chest. Bruce is suddenly glad that he got one of the more expensive chairs; from the way Jason is slumped that chair, it would have been uncomfortable if it wasn’t a cushy one. Bruce follows the outline of Jason’s body with his eyes, his chest aches at Jason’s shock of white hair. His sleeping face only reminds him of how far they’ve come and how far they’ve gone.
Dick is sleeping on the rightest part of the bed, snoring softly away. Damian is clinging tightly to him.
Bruce allows himself a small smile at the sight. He runs his hand over their heads respectively. He can’t believe how big Dick has gotten. He remembers when the man was twelve and all but a scrawny chest and skinny limbs. How Bruce had wanted to make a soldier out of him and had gotten something better instead. A son.
They’ve had their differences, sure, but Bruce knows they’ve come out of those alive, and he couldn’t be more grateful to have Dick in his life.
(Besides, without him Damian might have been lost—and Bruce wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if that happens. He almost didn’t when he lost Jason.)
He feels a tug on his shirtsleeve and finds—Tim, latching on to it with all his might. There’s a frown on his face. Bruce wants to smooth it out, wants to take the world from his son’s shoulders. But how does one take the sky from Atlas?
He hesitates, before settling for a kiss on Tim’s forehead instead.
Next to Tim lays Cass, who always, always sleeps like the dead. One touch from him and she would wake. She keeps pillows on all sides of her body—he knows how they make her feel safe.
There’s a short rap on the door. Softly, it opens, Alfred is on the other side of it.
“Ah, I see that you’re awake now, Master Bruce. Good morning, sir,” he greets.
“Morning, Alfred,” Bruce rasps out, quietly. If there are moments of peace in his children’s lives, he knows it’s when they sleep. Bruce doesn’t dare to take that away from them.
Alfred gives him a smile, his eyes knowing. “How are you feeling this morning, sir? Shall I fetch dr. Thompkins again today?”
Bruce looks at the faces of his sleeping children. A warm, tingling feeling starts at the centre of his chest. It seems to spread out and buzz over him. A blanket of warmth, nostalgia, pride, and content seem to intertwine him. For a moment, he wants to lets go. He puts all his nightmares and his mission on the back burner. They would come back; they would always have to come back. Bruce made a vow and he sticks to it, but for now—for now—
He thinks he could sleep for a little bit longer.
“You know what, Alfred,” he starts, “I think I’m feeling much better.”